


Dean Winchester Cries His Way Through Sex

by Birdgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdgirl/pseuds/Birdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're alive. Both of them. And both with all their pieces intact. That hadn't happened in… Dean can't even remember. And it's a relief- oh, man, is it a relief. (spoilers from dean's past in season 9 episode 7)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Time

It should have been surprising, even disgusting, how easily he was able to give her up in order to save Sammy. "Dean, take your brother outside as fast as you can! Now, Dean, go!" but he was already breaking into a sprint, little legs burning but he kept going. Kept holding tight to the little bundle in his arms and whispering soothing words into the infant's ear. But he didn't cry. Not when the house burned down in front of him, not when they had to move away, not even when Dad cried.

 

The first time Dean cried, _really_ cried, it wasn't because of what happened that November back in '83. It was that time when he was 10 years old, when he had been cooped up for hours with an annoying little brother and he just needed a break. It was the night that leaving for a few minutes almost cost Sam his life. If Dad hadn't come when he did, Sammy would have been Shtriga chow, and Dean knew that was all on him.

 

Dean Winchester was 10 years old the first time he cried, having soothed Sam back to sleep with soft words and hands rubbing soothing circles on the 6-year-old back as he drifted into unconsciousness. It was then that Dean allowed himself the pleasure, sinking under the covers with the smaller boy and holding the sleeping body tight as sobs racked his body. If Dad had any objections to Dean sleeping with him that night, he didn't say anything.

 

/

 

Dean was gripping him again, now, pulling him close and tugging at the long hair of his 6 foot 4 little brother and letting himself get pushed into the back of the motel room door as it shut behind them. He pulled and tugged and gripped tight as Sam leaned in and stole all his breath, and licking and nipping at Dean's lower lip before kissing him for all he was worth. Kissing him _more_ , even.

 

He should have thought it was weird, it was wrong, but really- he knew it was just long-coming. He wasn't uncomfortable when Sam bent down to suck little red marks into his collarbone, at the juncture between shoulder and neck. He just gripped Sam harder, mind blanking on everything except _Sam, Sam, Sam,_ eyes drifting closed as he held to his brother like he'd never let go. If he could help it, he never would.

 

30 years he'd been trying to get here. 30 years he'd been trying to keep Sam safe from nightmares, from monsters- from the things even monsters were afraid of. From Hell, from madness, from Demons and Angels and even the goddamn Apocalypse. He'd been waiting for the day when the danger would cease and his brother, his Sammy, didn't have to worry anymore.

 

And right now, they're alive. Both of them. And both with all their pieces intact. That hadn't happened in… Dean couldn't even remember. And it's a relief- oh man, is it a relief.


	2. The Second Time

John Winchester never wanted his younger son to know what was really going on. Dean knew that. But he also knew they couldn't hide it forever. Even at just 8 years old, Sammy was smarter than all the kids, and most of the adults that Dean had met. He had a special talent for knowing if someone was hiding feelings, and as a result Dean had to be really careful. He never cried in front of Sam, never hinted as to what their dad was doing when he left for weeks at a time, and only practiced his shooting when Sam was at school or the library, but still the 3rd grader was bound to find out soon enough.

 

It may have been a testament to John's laziness, or possibly on both his and Dean's parts, that the man's journal was left where Sammy could find it. And it was Dean who was there when Sam had questions, questions that Dean couldn't deflect even if he wanted to. _Are vampires real, Dean? What's a Kitsune? Mom didn't really die in a car accident, did she?-_

 

Dean was clenching his fists so hard his nails dug into the flesh of his palm. It hurt. Not just his hands, but because Sammy shouldn't know this. He shouldn't need to know what Dad does, about monsters and ghosts and demons. He didn't want Sammy to know the names of everything that went bump in the night, how to scribble warding signs where the maids wouldn't see, how to pop and load a pistol in his sleep like Dean had learned when he was 10. He wanted Sammy to grow up and be his own man, to be a lawyer or a doctor or something that made him happy. Was that really too much to ask?

 

He finally calmed down Sammy's chatty mouth, making a joke about how The Roadrunner couldn't catch up with his talk. He earned a small smile, Sam then opting to get under the covers on the bed next to Dean and turning out the lamp once Dean had done the same in his own bed. Once Dean was pretty sure his little brother was asleep, he slipped out of the bed and crept over to the bedside table to take back the journal. Maybe, just maybe, if he hid it he could deflect Sammy's questions just a _little_ longer.

 

"Dean?"

 

Dean jumped, quickly hiding the journal inside his jacket. "What is it, Sammy?"

 

Sam rubbed his eyes and sat up, looking up at Dean with more of that fatal curiosity on his face.

 

"Dean, if all that stuff is real, does that mean mommy was right? About there being… er, angels. There's angels, right Dean?"

 

Dean was 12 years old the second time he let himself cry, not daring to make a sound even as his face grew wet with salty tears. He was glad for the darkness because that meant Sammy couldn't see the rivulets that streamed down his cheeks, then. His hands were back into fists again, and he was biting his lip hard, too. It wasn't fair. Why did he have to do all this? Why did he have to learn how to hunt and shoot and chant in Latin, when they could all just settle down and Sammy could be a happy kid? He meant to be kind, but his voice was hard and snappy when he replied.

 

"Go to bed, Sammy."

 

/

 

Somehow they've made their way to the nearest bed, Sam hovering over Dean as the latter attempted to shed himself of all those annoying layers, taking it all off as fast as he could. It was messy and uncoordinated and probably the opposite of sexy, but Sam couldn't bring himself to care once his brother's chest was bare. Immediately he pushed his big brother back onto the bed, feeling his way around every muscle, every fold, every scar.

 

He heard his older brother let out a tiny gasp as Sam moved his mouth to the skin of Dean's torso, kissing and sucking and tasting. Dean arched willingly into the touches, breaking out a breathy " _Shit_ " when he nipped lightly at one of the elder's nipples. Sam softened his approach slightly, trailing his fingers down Dean's sides and hips and kissing a path down his stomach, enjoying what noises come out of Dean from just a little bit of teasing. Hands came up to Dean's hips finally, undoing his belt expertly before pulling the jeans and underwear down in one fluid motion. The older brother's gasp at the sudden cold soon dissolved into an almost whine, an absolutely needy sound as Sam's hand travelled downwards, teasing his thighs and fondling his balls, but never touching where Dean _needed_ it.

 

"S-sam, _shit_ … g-get on with it already…"

 

But the truth was, Dean wasn't nearly as rushed or hurried as he normally was. This wasn't a casual fuck, or a one night fling. This wasn't some hookup, this was _Sammy_. His brother, his lover, his best friend in the entire universe. Despite his body's want for pleasure, Dean knew that it didn't really matter to him how quickly tonight went. This was a night for both of them to just be together, whether it was having sex or just kissing or, hell, watching Dr. Sexy M.D., the real point of tonight was that it was _over_. The running, the killing and dying and the things that came between them. They were safe, they were together, and they were celebrating.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by Sam's hand as it finally wrapped around his member, moaned brokenly as his little brother's big hand starts slowly stroking and squeezing just the way he knows Dean loves. Desperately, he sits up enough to take Sam's face in his hands, beginning to kiss him just about as passionately as he can. There isn't enough he can say with that kiss- _thank you, we did it, we're safe, we're together, we made it and I love you. Always have, always will._


	3. The Third Time

Robin pulls back, and Dean can't really find anything to do other than blink at her and try desperately to calm his heated face. Damn, so _that_ was what kissing felt like. For the love of pie, why the _hell_ had he never done that before? Meanwhile, Robin is smirking at him from the other end of the bench, as if trying to hide her laughter.

 

"You done this before?"

 

"Huh?" Dean snapped out of his reverie in order to protect what little cool he's got left, trying to look experienced and like he kissed girls all the time… whatever look that was.

 

"Huh? Yeah, of course I have."

 

She smiles, unbelieving. He smiles back, uncharacteristically shy. Distantly, he hears Sonny's voice barking his name, and apologizes before running off. When he looks back she's just smiling, though, and he knows this isn't the last time he'll get to see her.

 

It isn't the last time until 4 weeks later, when Sonny comes into his room wearing way too sad a look when he congratulates Dean on his dance attire. That's when his smile fades, and Sonny looks pained as he relays the news that Dad's back to get him. He tried to convince his dad to let Dean stay for just the night, but no cigar. It's now that Dean feels tears sting his cheeks, sprouting from the disappointment, the unfairness of having to leave everything he'd worked for these past 2 months.

 

Dean is 16 years old the 3rd time he cries, sniffling and teary and only able to hold tight to Sonny as he rides it out. He'll miss everyone, miss the life he had just started to build. For a small, shining moment, Dean had been his own man, had made his own choices and had Sonny and Robin and all the others to thank for that.

 

Sonny says he can try again, try to convince Dad to let him have this night at least. And for a minute, Dean almost believes him. He wants to stay, to work the field and have a girlfriend and dream of being a rockstar like other teenagers always got to do. He almost pleads Sonny to fight for him, until he looks out the window.

 

Dad's honking the horn impatiently, heeding no attention to the 12-year-old in the backseat. Sammy's playing with an airplane, looking bored and, more importantly, _lonely_. His tears stop then, forearm coming up to wipe his nose as he once again puts on his pokerface. No matter what he'd started here, he'd go for Sammy. Had to. Always did, and always would.

 

He thanked Sonny again, taking a deep breath as opened the door of the backseat of the impala, climbing in and snapping it closed. Sammy continued to play with his toy, and Dad didn't say a word of greeting. They drove off in silence.

 

/

 

Dean can't seem to be silent. He knows the other residents can probably hear him from the other side of this grubby motel, thin walls making that even more likely. But really, he couldn't help himself. Sammy had pulled from the kiss to put his mouth in another, much _lower_ place, poking out his tongue to lick one continuous stripe up Dean's cock. The older's pleasured hiss broke into another needy moan as Sam's lips surrounded the head, his own head snapping backwards into the pillows behind him.

 

Sam just smirked, pleased with his brother's reaction. He tongued the sensitive ridge underneath, slowly sinking down as far as he could go. Once Dean's cock had reached the back of his throat, he came back up slowly, the suction of his lips driving Dean crazy. The man above him moaned wantonly, unable to keep his hands from clasping again at Sam's long hair. He was loud, but he couldn't really bring himself to care.

 

His little brother started up a maddening rhythm, sinking and rising on Dean's cock like it was nothing, bobbing and licking and sucking in ways that made Dean's eyes roll into the back of his head. His breathing grew quicker, moans higher and sounding just moments away from that inevitable peak point. He wasn't going to last much longer, at this rate.

 

"Fuck, Sam, you gotta… shit, I'm gonna…"

 

But he never gets the chance, Sam pulling off right when he's on the edge and gripping the base of his cock, causing Dean to whine at the loss of warmth and squirm, desperate and so close to release. His pupils are huge and dark, filled with lust. Sam's eyes stare back at him evenly, other hand popping open a bottle of lube seemingly from nowhere. He must have grabbed it from his bag at one point, but for the life of him Dean couldn't think of where.

 

Granted, he couldn't really think of much right now, especially when Sam pushed a first finger inside him, nearly cumming if not for the other hand still at his base. He arched up into the finger, thicker than his own yet at the same time softer, more dexterous as it started the process of stretching his hole. One finger soon became two, scissoring and stretching and burning in all the right ways. God, Sammy was going to be the death of him.


	4. Chapter 4

"That kid's dead."

"Dean-"

"I'm gonna rip his lungs out!"

"It's not a big deal..."

"Not a big deal? Sammy, look at yourself. If Dad was here-"

"He's not."

"Well, I am! And as soon as I'm finished with that dick-"

"Shut up, okay? I don't need your help."

"That's right, you don't. You could have torn him apart. So why didn't you?"

"Because I don't want to be the freak for once, Dean! I want to be normal!"

Dean pauses, sighing as he looks up to the sky. Damn, didn't they both. He knew he had no right to question Dad, not with everything he'd done- or at least, tried to do to be a good father. He knew why Dad hunted. He knew why they were constantly moving, why they couldn't stay anywhere long enough to fit in with any crowd but themselves. Sammy knew it too, but he had a point. They both wanted to be normal. Dean just couldn't express that like Sammy did.

Amanda's words came back to him like a steam train. _I'm not mad, Dean. I thought maybe… underneath your whole "I could give a crap", bad-boy thing, that there was something more going on. I mean, I like the way you are with your brother. But I was wrong. And you spend so much time trying to convince people that you're cool, but it's just an act. We both know you're just a sad… lonely little kid. And I feel sorry for you, Dean._

_You feel sorry for me, huh?! Don't feel sorry for me! You don't know anything about me! I save lives. I'm a hero. A HERO!_

It was hard, living like a freak. It was hard, nobody but themselves knowing everything they did and what they really meant to people's lives. But it was downright painful that Sammy had to go through it, too. Sammy wasn't a freak. He was strong, and loving, and independent, and he shouldn't have to put up with shit from playground bullies, for fuck's sake. They left the park shortly after, Dean dropping Sammy off at the library after his brother's claim that he needed to study for a test. He knew Sammy probably just wanted to be alone for a bit, and figured that might well be for the best.

Dean pulled out of the library, taking him and the impala back to the motel so Dad could pick it up if he needed to. He got out, slamming the door harder than he'd meant to and unlocking the door to their ever-dingy motel room. Dad wasn't there, and Dean couldn't have been more grateful of the fact, because really, he couldn't fake it any longer.

He strode in, slamming that door too and throwing the keys wherever. He sat down on the bed, put his head in his hands, and let it all go. Dean Winchester cried a 4th time when he was 18 years old, sitting on the end of a hotel bed and snotting up his hands and forearms. He just sat there, letting the tears fall until there weren't any left. Then he sat a little bit longer.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed with a text. Sammy was ready to be picked up. He forced himself to stand on his own feet, bitched for a few minutes trying to re-find the keys, and headed out.

/

3 fingers had stretched and probed, Dean's knuckles had grown white from gripping the sheets so hard. He was whining steadily now, breaths ragged as he pleaded wordlessly. He gasped and moaned when Sam hit his prostate, drawing a lusty grin from the younger man.

Dean couldn't think of anything else at this moment, so caught up in the arms of his younger brother. After that, things happened all at once too slowly and too quickly. There was a pop of a cap, and just moments later something pressed at his entrance. He'd lost control of his words, the noises coming from him half pleading and half just sounds. He gripped firm shoulders above him as they slid together, ignoring the pain and focusing at the skin under his fingers, squeezing toned muscle, and the feel of chest to chest, the slide and rhythm of their bodies.

It was a slow rhythm, now. Different from before, not all heated lust and sweat, more gentle. More loving. Intimate, in a way only they could share.

"Fuck, Dean…"

Those few words were more than enough. They hadn't really needed any, anyways. Everything was understood, between mingled breath and beating hearts. A single tear ran down the older brother's cheek.


End file.
